by Jay Gill
Vaughan had then patiently explained to Norton what he needed from him. The last name on the kill list would be dealt with, but for that to happen, he would require assistance from Norton on the day. Norton was instructed to tie a small red ribbon to the branch of a tree close to Brannon’s grave. The ribbon would serve two purposes. First, it would help Vaughan calibrate wind speed for his long-range shot. Secondly, and most importantly, it would serve as the green light to kill the United Kingdom’s serving prime minister.
Vaughan raised his binoculars again and watched as the first few cars began to arrive. First came more security, then the guests started to arrive. There were more moving parts in this operation than he would have liked, but all he could do now was finish what he’d started and pray everyone kept their word.
Chapter Forty-Eight
The funeral service took a little over an hour. The final hymn carried over the open fields, across the churchyard and high up the hillside. Here it was greeted with the mechanical and deliberate final preparations of the marksman. Vaughan peered through the binoculars and watched as the coffin was taken from the church to the grave. Guests spilled through the church doors, some retreating for a cigarette, others gathering to talk and reflect on the service. The distraught widow, Rowena, who was being assisted by family, followed her husband’s coffin. Prime Minister Angela Lafferty and her husband, Phillip, were talking quietly together as they walked slowly to the grave for the final part of the ceremony. Angela Lafferty had clearly been crying and made no effort to hide it.
George Norton was alone. Unsurprisingly, Mrs Norton wasn’t well enough to attend. Vaughan watched as Norton slid away from the main group. He quickly made his way to the graveside, where he turned his back on the grave and discreetly tied a red ribbon to the low branch of a beech tree. That was the green light Vaughan had been waiting for.
Vaughan continued to watch Norton as he spoke briefly to a young couple before circling around and finally making his way to the back of the gathered attendees.
He knew Norton would have a backup shooter, some insurance. Vaughan’s heart pounded as he swept the binoculars from left to right. The prime minister would soon be in position; just a few minutes now to the big kill. Vaughan narrowed his eyes, trying to find the second shooter. He looked over the car park; nothing. He scanned surrounding fields; nothing. The only logical position would be one similar to his: a high vantage point, giving a bird’s-eye view of everyone below. From such a high position it would be like shooting fish in a barrel.
Vaughan ran the binoculars along the hillside to his left. This stretch was exposed, and though it was a better location for exiting after the kill, it fell away sharply and didn’t lend itself well to ensuring a clean shot.
He carefully rolled over and swept the binoculars along the hillside to his right. There was more cover this side, but from this position the view of the grounds below was hampered by an ancient yew tree at the far end of the churchyard. Vaughan swore under his breath. Where was he? He had no idea how long he had before the marksman decided to take things into his own hands.
An imperceptible movement caught his eye. Partway down the sloping bank to his right was what looked like a dead tree trunk. He checked again. He studied the shape, and the more he studied it the more his trained eye revealed the shape of what could only be Norton’s backup shooter.
There. Another movement.
He had him.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Vaughan turned to me and gave me the position of Norton’s shooter. I called it in and the trap was sprung. This had been the biggest gamble of my career. Vaughan and I had worked as a team and the police marksman, who lay beside Vaughan, prepared himself to take out the shooter if need be.
Unmarked police vehicles now raced to the position of Norton’s shooter. The helicopter hovered overhead; officers with dogs and counter-terror agents were on him in seconds. There was no contest. In the face of such an overwhelming show of force, the shooter stepped away from his weapon and was quickly arrested. Who he was didn’t matter; most likely a second-rate sniper, a mercenary or professional hit-man hired by those in partnership with the day’s real prize, Home Secretary George Norton.
I watched as the prime minister was escorted to safety. I had met with her twenty-four hours before and, after her initial shock at the extent of the conspiracy Norton had orchestrated, she had quickly agreed that the operation should go ahead. Her words rang in my ears now as we watched the gunman being led away: ‘The actions of this government will not be dictated by fear. I want business as usual. I will attend the funeral of my good friend and that’s final. Good people have died; a cloud of fear and uncertainty hangs over our entire country. I will not shirk my responsibility. If those involved can be brought to justice, let’s get on with it.’
I admired her grit. With all the evidence that her life was in imminent danger there would have been no shame in bowing out. She knew as well as anyone that with any tactical operation there are no guarantees. In all likelihood her life had been in grave danger, but the prime minister had been willing to participate to end the bloodshed. It had then been up to me to make sure she wasn’t harmed and those responsible were stopped.
I handcuffed Vaughan, almost reluctantly, and he and the constable and I walked down the hill to where Norton stood beside a squad car.
‘You have your answer, Inspector,’ said Vaughan as we walked.
‘In what way?’ I asked.
‘The bullet in your daughter’s school bag. Only a low-life piece of shit would do something like that.’
Vaughan nodded towards Norton and we both looked at him.
Norton was loudly and indignantly protesting his innocence, but broke off momentarily when he caught sight of Vaughan. The casual onlooker would have never guessed the two men were acquainted at all until Vaughan broke away from the constable, got up in Norton’s face and hissed, ‘I’m going to make sure you rot in jail.’
Norton stepped back with an expression of disgust. ‘Keep this lunatic away from me. I have no idea what any of this is about. All this is absurd, utter nonsense.’
All of our heads turned now as the dark, sleek car of Prime Minister Lafferty sped away. I turned back to look at Norton and could see the physical change in him now as he was left behind, as the reality of his predicament struck him.
He put on a brave face, but I could see the fear in his eyes.
Chapter Fifty
Norton never made it to trial. Using political influence or pressure or good old-fashioned blackmail, he managed to get bail. As soon as he was released, he took a private jet to Germany. From there he flew to Morocco, after which his movements become unclear. Some say he boarded a yacht owned by a wealthy Saudi businessman, where he was wined and dined and given a hero’s welcome. Some say he wound up in Moscow, where he planned to use his contacts to arrange lucrative financial deals. The truth is, it was unlikely we would ever know the whole story.
What we do know is that his freedom was short lived. George Norton fell to his death from the balcony of a luxury hotel in Dubai. Unofficial reports suggest that for several days he had been a guest of the hotel and had been seen at a number of lavish parties. Witness statements suggest he was enjoying an opulent lifestyle of women, drink and drugs. Toxicology reports found alcohol and cocaine in his bloodstream. The young woman he’d checked into the room with was never traced. A report of two men seen entering the room immediately before the incident were dismissed by local officials, as they could not be corroborated. George Norton’s death was quickly concluded to be death by misadventure.
Sat in his prison cell, Jared Vaughan finds comfort in knowing Norton died the way he did. He prefers the unofficial report he was given – of Norton being terrified as two burly men were deliberately let into his luxury suite by his female companion for the night. They had dragged him kicking and screaming across the floor, restrained him, and forced a mixture of alcohol and cocaine down his throat. The y
oung woman, who had hated every second of her time with him, had spat in his face. The two men had then dragged him out to the balcony and hung him over the railing so he could get a good look at where he was headed. After several seconds of pleading for his life, he was dropped fifty-two floors to his death.
Jared Vaughan received life imprisonment. He knows he will never be released. During the trial, stories of Corporal Vaughan’s outstanding war record emerged. His lawyers painted a picture of him as a victim. A man who found himself in an unimaginable situation and who was lied to and let down by his country. A war hero who was vulnerable and should have been receiving treatment for post-traumatic stress. Instead, Vaughan had been targeted, groomed, exploited and turned into a deadly weapon for the financial gain of George Norton, a respected and highly regarded politician whom Vaughan should have been able to trust.
Vaughan’s fight for pioneering treatment to save Becky never stopped. A tabloid newspaper took up the war hero’s story and set up a ‘Save Becky’ campaign. The public response was overwhelming and the money was quickly raised. Becky was flown to the US, where she underwent an experimental but highly successful procedure. The delicate operation and post-operative treatment went well and doctors are cautiously optimistic. A foundation called Becky’s Hope has been set up to help other children in situations similar to Becky’s.
Father Nolan recently visited his friend Jared Vaughan. By all accounts, it was a highly emotional meeting, at the end of which the two men prayed together. There are three books in Vaughan’s cell given to him by Father Nolan. Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist; the complete works of Shakespeare, and the King James Bible. Vaughan picks up the bible from time to time but isn’t ready yet to ask for forgiveness. A quote he regularly refers to has been marked:
Therefore no one will be declared righteous in God's sight by the works of the law; rather, through the law we become conscious of our sin – Romans 3:20
Chapter Fifty-One
Rayner and I sipped Cobra beer; the empty plates from a curry sat on the floor beside us. Alice and Faith were asleep and Monica was watching Little Women in the front room. I’d heard her sniffing back tears so I guessed she was enjoying it.
I leaned back in my big old comfy chair and stretched and thought of Monica sitting alone. I knew she was good for me, and I was wishing I had more time to spend with her right now.
We’d both reviewed the case file from DS Jones and had instantly seen the similarity in the way the body of Nicole Jenkins had been found with that of the victims of the Angel Killer. Though the similarity was clear, however, the brutality was new. This was an attack on two people – Nicole and a man who worked as a fitness trainer – and it appeared frenzied. The last thing I wanted was to pursue a dead end. I looked at the photo of Nicole again; her arms had been crossed almost lovingly across her chest. No, it was too similar. There had to be a connection. What linked her to the other girls?
‘I don’t see it. This has to be a copycat,’ said Rayner. ‘We run the danger of wasting our time looking for something that isn’t there. Some prick is playing games here. This is most likely some nutter trying to throw us off, using the Angel Killer’s MO to cover his tracks. Damn, I hate this case.’
He didn’t mean it. Rayner was simply tired and frustrated; we both were. We were working long hours and neither of us was getting enough sleep.
The crime scene photos clearly showed Nicole in the same folded-arm position as the Angel Killer’s other victims, but it was the images of Patrick Hicks I found most disturbing. If this was the work of the Angel Killer, then this was the first time, to my knowledge, he’d killed two people at the same time. Nicole was a married woman; the other victims had been unmarried. Why would he change his behaviour? Why take that chance? And why had the extra mutilation to Patrick Hicks necessary? He’d really gone to town on him.
Was the Angel Killer evolving, I wondered? He was certainly bolder. This attack had taken place out in the open; until how, he’d kept a low profile. So, one similarity and a whole lot of differences. I sighed. Maybe Rayner was right; maybe this was a dead end. Maybe we had another killer on the loose. But without a pattern of behaviour to follow, we might never catch a break. How can you profile someone whose behaviour is so erratic?
‘Look at what he did to Patrick Hicks,’ I said, pointing to one of the crime scene photos. I was thinking out loud and Rayner played along. ‘He damn near castrated the poor sod. This is the work of someone who’s angry and wild. Yet, the earlier killings show planning and control.’
‘Maybe Hicks said something AK didn’t like?’
AK, meaning the Angel Killer. I noted the abbreviation. ‘There are so many differences. What if this – the location, maybe, or the fact that the two were together – meant something different to AK? It’s also much more personal. Perhaps he’s testing his boundaries or experimenting. Perhaps he made a mistake. What if these two simply saw something they shouldn’t have?’ I passed Rayner a fresh beer.
‘The other main difference is her.’ Rayner held up the picture of Nicole as he took the bottle.
‘Agreed. She’s older. She’s married.’
‘Right. Then there’s Hicks. Whom AK clearly took a major dislike to. Perhaps AK got turned down by Hicks for gym membership?’ Rayner smiled weakly.
‘A fitness instructor. Women, women, women.’ I flicked through Hicks’s file again. I slowly ran my finger down a list of names. ‘Rayner, you’re a genius. If I’m right, Hicks really picked the wrong wife to screw around with. He didn’t have a clue who he was pissing off. Here.’ I handed Rayner the list. ‘These are Patrick Hicks’s clients. Seems he specialised in fitness for women. Not one male name. Any of those names stand out?’
‘Not really. What am I looking for? You think Hicks was offering a little extra to lots of bored housewives, perhaps?’
‘He obviously had a relationship of sorts with Nicole Jenkins. Why not more of his clients? Keep looking – there’s a name we’ve come across before. Can you see it?’ I let Rayner go through the list of names and said nothing. If he saw it too, then I knew we might have a real development in the case.
‘Melanie CUTLER.’ Rayner stood up and then sat down again. ‘No bloody way.’ He took a long swig from his bottle of beer. ‘Her husband was that creepy little git we interviewed after Stacy DiMarco was killed. It has to be him. I shouldn’t say it, but he creeped me out the moment I laid eyes on him. Slimy little bastard.’
‘Let’s not get carried away. Let’s do this properly.’ I didn’t want to admit it but this was the breakthrough we needed. If Melanie Cutler was anything to do with Michael Cutler, then we could be on to something.
If she was Michael Cutler’s wife and she was screwing around with Patrick Hicks, then we had motive.
The fact that Cutler also knew Stacy DiMarco might just be the cherry on the cake. We might have just found the Angel Killer.
Chapter Fifty-Two
I hoped I was doing the right thing by us all. I’d been going over the pros and cons in my mind for weeks now, and on balance it felt right. I just had to hope Alice and Faith agreed. I decided I would speak to the girls first. They were the key; if they were happy, I felt sure everything else would fall into place.
This had to be a unanimous decision; it was important all four of us believed it was right for us. It would mean big changes, but changes for the better. At least that’s what I hoped.
Right now, I had no idea how Alice and Faith would react. Would they refuse because of the memories they associated with the house? I know I have precious memories. But I did know that if I was ever going to move on and love again, it would require a fresh start.
There was something personal I needed to do first, though. I carried Helena with me every day, and there would forever be a place in my heart for her. I needed to visit her.
I pulled up outside the church and sat in the car with my thoughts for a moment. The car park was empty. I got out and walked around behind
the church, where there was a small area for memorial plaques.
A small blue and yellow bird flew down and watched me for a moment before disappearing back into the hedgerow. I placed a bouquet of Helena’s favourite flowers, purples and whites, down beside her plaque.
‘I suppose you know why I’m here,’ I said softly. ‘In fact, you probably know better than I do why I’m here. I just want you to know that I finally feel ready for the next step. I still don’t have all the answers, and I now understand that’s okay. I know you’ve been helping me, guiding me, cajoling me to this point. I needed it.
‘The girls are beautiful, and they remind me of you in so many ways. Alice especially, in the way she’s strong like you. She’s going to be a real fighter. Faith is the cheeky one and always wants to make everyone laugh. She’s so inquisitive, too; she wants to understand everything. They’ve both coped so well. I hope you’re proud.
‘Monica has been there for us all. I still believe it was your intention, whether you knew it or not, that she be part of our family when you were taken from us. She has cared for our girls, nursed them, wiped away their tears and loved them as you would have wanted. And I’ve fallen in love with her. I know you want me to be happy. I want you to know you’ll always be here, in my heart. Always. I love you, sweetheart.’